Delicate
by rumflavouredkisses
Summary: Submission for a 30 kisses challenge: a FrankieBoyd [non] romance in thirty parts. Contains MASSIVE spoilers for the end of series 4...but if you haven't seen that yet then stop wasting time reading this: go watch!
1. LOOK   OVER   HERE

**#1 LOOK OVER HERE**

"Frankie, do you think you could…."

Boyd pauses a moment in the doorway, waiting for acknowledgement but Frankie doesn't even look up. 'Frankie….?' He tries again but gets the same lack of response. He feels a flash of anger: her defiance and insolence crawls under his skin.

"FRANKIE!"

"Boyd." Her tone is heavy – exasperated – and she still doesn't look up. He is reminded of a mother whose child is interrupting something important to ask for the tenth time why the sky is blue. Her attitude only fuels his irritation and he digs his nails into his palms as he struggles to quell his anger. "I said…"

"I heard what you said. Well, what you started to say: you finished mid-sentence. Could I….what?" Finally she looks up, fixing her eyes on him for barely a second before turning back to the desk.

He forces another deep breath.

"I got this from Jackson's flat. I think it's his, but if you could check it, just to be on the safe side?"

"Put it over there." She gestures vaguely across the room, continuing to squint into the telescope before her. He can't help but wonder what's so fascinating under the eye piece that she can't break from looking at it, even to check where she's waving.

Seeing an opportunity, he follows her instruction exactly, dropping the bag at the spot she'd indicated. The evidence bag hits the floor with a loud clang, and he feels a flush of satisfaction as her head shoots up.

"Boyd, what the hell?"

He wonders if the possible damage to the evidence is worth it, just to see the flash of anger in her eyes when they meet his. She mutters something about him being a prick, but doesn't move to retrieve the bag.

"Had you torn yourself away from the telescope for even a _moment_, Frankie, you would have known that you were gesturing at mid air."

He crosses his arms as he speaks: self-righteous and proud of it. Unsurprisingly this fails to impress her and she scowls back at him. "Well, I was busy."

"Right, if you say so."

He turns on his heel and heads for the door, leaving the evidence bag lying on the floor, its contents shimmering silver under the strip lights.

"Boyd, the bag!"

He smirks as he turns round slowly - drawing it out, enjoying acting the child role she'd apparently assigned him. "The bag, Frankie?"

He looks down at it on the floor and takes a step back. Incredulous, she swears at him. 'Fuck, what are you, ten? For Christ's sake!"

She pounces from her seat and is in front of him in a second; mumbling angrily under her breath as she bends to fetch the bag. 'You're such a child, I can't believe…' When she rises back upright, she meets his gaze with a furious expression and anger seeping from her pores.

The whole kiss is over in a second.

One minute he's smirking; chest thrust out - immaturely pompous - and then he's leaning forwards. His lips are on hers – lightly, barely – and then he's smirking again.

"Don't ignore me."


	2. NEWS

**#2 NEWS; LETTER**

"Who's that?"

He didn't hear Frankie come in but when she speaks, she whispers right into his ear, bent over his shoulder - so close her lips brush his earlobe. He turns his head towards her and the movement tickles her hair against his cheek.

"Ever heard of Daniel Wilson?"

"How could I not? Even if it hadn't been the biggest man hunt of the last fifty years, he's all over the news now."

"Because he's being released."

Boyd gestures to a TV flickering in the corner and mutes it. It's showing the BBC news – a close-up of a man in an ugly tie, leaving court.

"Ridiculous."

She moves round to his feet, and perches beside them on his desk. He rapidly flicks his focus from the television to her and back. "Indeed it is."

"Why?"

This time his focus stays on her as his eyebrows knit in confusion. "He was a…"

"Sadistic killer I know, I didn't mean…I know why his _release_ is ridiculous; I just wondered why you're watching a news story about it. At work."

"It was a big case, not far from here. I'm just showing professional interest."

She raises her eyebrows and another question waits on her lips but he cuts her off before she can speak "It was what you could call my 'big break'."

"You were on the case?"

"Only as a lowly DS: a tiny cog in the big machine. But it was me who found the witness who finally secured the conviction."

There's no arrogance in his voice – he's not bragging about a past glory, just telling a story. She nods, and her hand drifts to his ankles on the desk, fingers tracing small circles against his socks. "Sometimes I wonder if I'd be here now if it wasn't for that case. It was so high profile…such an important witness…it was only luck really, but no one could deny how important it was."

He stares at the television – the coherence of his speech fading as he looses himself in his memories. The silence rests heavy with the expectation of his next sentence, but it doesn't come. On the screen the picture changes; they zoom into a close up of a man in a suit. Old but smart with his grey hair neatly parted and his tie in a fat Windsor knot. The banner at the bottom of the screen proclaims him to be John Harper, a retired Detective Chief Inspector.

"Was that your DCI?"

"Only on that case, yes: half the Met was drafted onto it by the end. Needed all the man power they could get. He hated me - thought I was much too cocky."

She bites back a smart comment but can't help smirking. He catches the quirk of her lips and raises his eyebrows warningly. "He absolutely hated that it was me who made the breakthrough. As if it wasn't bad enough that the key witness wasn't found by him, they weren't even found by one of his team. If there hadn't been so much riding on the conviction I'm sure he would have misplaced the statement or found the evidence inadmissible or something."

"What? I'm sorry, I know that DCI's can be gits" it's not a direct jibe at him but they both acknowledge it could be with slight smiles and raised eyebrows "but surely, no one would risk _any_ kind of conviction."

"That's surprisingly innocent and optimistic of you, Frankie."

"Naïve, you mean?"

"Well, I wouldn't want to…"

"Insult me, Boyd?"

"No, lie to you. It's not naïve, having faith in the system. Shouldn't everyone do that?"

Swinging his feet off the desk, he leans forwards to grab her hands, covering them as he pulls her closer. "I wish…I wish I could still feel that way."

She responds to his sincerity by leaning towards him, almost magnetically. Close, so close, too close, and her lips are on his without a second thought.

The contact is fleeting; Boyd jumps back and casts her a sorrowful look "Frankie, I…I don't think this is a good idea."

She straightens up and she can feel her cheeks flaming. Inwardly she curses herself - not for allowing herself to kiss him but for being ashamed by it. His hand clasps hers – tight - and she tries to pull them back but he won't let go. "Listen, I…"

"I get it Boyd, alright. It's not…we can't and I didn't mean…God, I guess I need to learn your technique: get away quicker."

Shocked, he releases her hand and before he can speak she's gone.


	3. JOLT

**#3 JOLT**

In a flicker and a flash the sky lights up; a loud crack of thunder quickly follows.

'Jesus!' Boyd hisses, jumping.

'Oh you big baby!' Frankie smirks at him before ducking into the tent and calling back, 'it's only a little storm.'

Glaring at her back, he follows her in. 'Well I wasn't expecting it.'

'Yeah, okay,' she says, with more than a hint of scepticism 'If you say so.'

'I do.' She gives no reply beyond a smirk, which he pointedly ignores. '

Is this going to take long?' He asks, none-too-subtly checking his watch in the beam of his torch.

'Why, have you got plans?' She shines her own torch into the gaping grave before her; quickly scanning for flashes of reflected light.

'Yes, actually, I have dinner plans. Ha, didn't see that one coming did you?' There's more than a hint of smugness in his voice as he comes up behind her to look over her shoulder into the open grave.

'A date? You?' She doesn't bother to hide her surprise – or disbelief - at the suggestion and after a long pause he modifies his claim. 'Well, not _exactly_ a date'

'Then what_ exactly_ is it?'

He glances away from her as he mumbles under his breath. 'District commissioner wants to discuss the progress of the case.'

She gives a snort of laughter before clambering into the grave. 'Now _that_ sounds more likely!'

After a few minutes in the hole she gives a triumphant shout 'Well, it looks like your date needn't worry, because - can you shine your torch just there a minute – I've found it!'

She bounces back up, waving a silver necklace. 'It must have slipped out of the coffin when we moved it; I just hope dirt hasn't got inside the…' she pauses as she fiddles with the small locket 'the actual charm. That should wait for the lab though.' She slips the chain into a small evidence bag and shakes it at Boyd; frowning at the face he pulls in reaction to the now dirt smeared plastic. 'And again with being a baby,' she chides as he finally takes the bag and slips it into his pocket.

'That's more like it.' She hoists herself up onto the side of the grave and holds a hand out towards Boyd. 'Right, now help me up?' She asks, waving a hand towards him. For a moment he just stares down at her, a strange look on his face, and she slaps his calf. 'Oi, BOYD!'

Glaring at her he takes her hand and pulls; too hard so that instead of stopping upright she keeps going and stumbles into him. With her body pressing flush against his, she casts him a self-satisfied smirk. 'Ooh, did I hit a nerve with the baby comments?'

'I just don't feel you should speak to your boss like that, Dr Wharton.'

'Oh come one. Which part of that sentence should I attack first – the boss part, or the Dr Wharton part?' She asks smartly, sticking out her tongue in defiance.

Shaking his head mock-despairingly at her action he teases 'and we're labelling _me_ a baby?'

'We? So you do agree with me then?' She laughs softly, her chest vibrating against the heavy knit of his coat. The movement makes her acutely aware of herself – the proximity of their bodies and the weight of his hand still wrapped round hers – and she jumps away from him, blushing.

There's a flash of confusion – hurt – across his face as she quickly straightens up and moves away, but he doesn't say anything. She busies herself at the graveside – desperate for something else to focus on – beginning to unpeel the top half of her blue protective suit. When she spins back round to face Boyd he's standing where she left him, looking at her with distant eyes, as if he isn't quite seeing her.

'Boyd? I'm done here, so if you want to rush off to your dinner…' Her voice appears to startle him back to himself; his eyes fix on her as he groans.

'I can assure you, there is nothing I want less than to rush off to that dinner. Think of something – anything - for me to do to get out of it, and I will be forever in your debt!'

She laughs, and he cracks a smile, reaching over to the door of the tent to open it

'Anyway, who wants to go out into that?'

Peering over his shoulder into the night air, she hums in agreement. The darkness is thick with torrential rain, and the air vibrates with the sound of it hitting the floor. Still she turns to him with a fake-disgusted expression.

'Boyd, I refuse to spend the whole night in a graveyard'

'Not even with me?' He feigns hurt and turns back to frown at her.

'_Especially _not with you!' She laughs, leaning further into him, trying to see the outline of the car through the downpour.

'Well, quite frankly, I'm hurt. So hurt in fact that now I am not going to offer you my coat to shelter under anymore.'

Before she can reply that she wouldn't take it anyway, he ducks out into the rain and strides away across the wet cemetery. 'Oh really mature!' she shouts at his shadow as it melts into the rain.

There's a moment of dark silence, before two beams of light blind her. After a moment, he flashes the headlights again mockingly, and she can imagine the smug look on his face. She glares into the light angrily, mouthing a curse she knows he can't see.

'Right' She removes her blue suit, stuffing it her tool box and takes a deep breath. 'Here goes nothing.' She grimaces and runs out into the rain. Almost instantly her hair clamps to her head, and her clothes transform into wet sacks against her skin.

As she approaches the car her feet slip on the rain slick gravel and she slams against the passenger door. Swearing, she yanks it open, throws herself inside and slams it shut all in one rapid movement. Scowling, she turns to Boyd who positively smirks back – seeming to have forgotten his own dishevelled appearance. 'And to think, you could have avoided that with one nice word!'

Running a hand through her sopping hair she glares at him, but resists from replying.

'Do you have a towel?'

'Nope.' He shook his head.

'A blanket?' Another shake.

'A shirt or a jacket or ANYTHING?' She demands, desperation seeping into her voice. He begins to shake again, but stops suddenly.

'Hang on, now, I have a change of clothes: it might even include a towel!'

Frankie almost smiles at this confession, but she senses a catch and waits. 'But…?'

'Why does there have to be a 'but'?'

'Because you've got that smug smile on your face that says you're about to make me unhappy.'

'I _never_ smirk! And even if I did, the thought of causing you displeasure would never…'

'Boyd, what's the catch.' She cut in irritably, as drop of water fell from her hair to her eyelid.

'The holdall is in the back seat.' He waves vaguely backwards 'Somewhere.'

'You are so bloody useless.' She mutters, twisting in her seat to search for the bag. She spots it almost immediately – half hidden beneath the driver's seat - and leans further round, fumbling awkwardly; unable to reach it

Swearing, she turns fully in her seat and – using Boyd's seat for leverage - she half climbs into the back and manages to grasp the handle. 'A-ha!' She calls triumphantly, giving it one hard tug. But the bag catches on something and – as she is unprepared for the resistance – unbalances her so that she falls – quite spectacularly – backwards.

Boyd catches her back before she slams into the dashboard, but is too slow to stop her landing painfully on the handbrake.

'Son of a…' She scowls, gingerly raising herself and rubbing her arse.

'Language Frankie!' Boyd chastises with a smirk. But it disappears at her genuinely injured expression, and carefully he pulls her towards him, shifting her off the handbrake and offering more support to her back.

She wants to be a feminist, to tell him she doesn't need his strong _man_ act, but the heat of his hand through her damp clothes tingles on her skin and instead she presses back into his touch.

A single drop of water forms on the very tip of his hair – swept heavily across his forehead – and drips down across his face, over his cheek and into the uneven stubble of his beard. Instinctively she reaches out and swipes it away and at her touch his breath catches. She gives him a half smile, studying him. The cold has flushed his skin pink, and the rain given it a damp sheen. His eyelids flutter shut, loosening another glittering bead of water from his eyelashes. Again she reaches to brush it away with the pad of her thumb, and involuntarily leans closer' too close; close enough that she can feel his breath on her lips.

The brush of her lips against his is so light it's barely a kiss – barely a touch. She pulls only millimetres away, savouring the bittersweet silence that hangs before the recriminations.

He says her name as if it's a prayer; a curse; just a sharp breath and barely a sound. 'Frankie…' It hangs between them as she shifts back into her seat, the movement stirring his eyelids to fly open. There's pain in his eyes and passion, but all she can see is the regret and sympathy that is painted plainly across his face: the look of someone who thinks he's about to break her heart.

Shame floods her and she won't allow him that privilege. She retrieves the bag which had been loosened by the jolt of her fall, and pulls out the towel. Viciously she rubs it against her hair, ignoring the look, she doesn't even have to see to know, that Boyd is giving her.

'Frankie you know…'

'This can't ever happen. Yeah, I got the memo.'

'It's not that I don't…' it's the pity in his voice that pushes her over the edge.

'Fuck Boyd! I get it, all right? One mistake, okay? Forgive me for being human.'

'But I don't…'

'Just take me back to the office. Please.'


	4. OUR DISTANCE, THAT PERSON

**#4 OUR DISTANCE AND THAT PERSON**

Grace is trained in studying people so she can't help but notice. They are hardly subtle: both wear their emotions firmly on their sleeves. From one day to the next it's a full pendulum swing from unnecessary touches and shared humour to hard quick snatches and sharp words: friends to enemies in one night. It would be impossible not to notice.

She assumes it's Boyd's fault: it so often is. His quick temper and his insensitivity make him a walking time bomb. But she doesn't absolve Frankie of blame: she ignites his fuse so often. An insolent reply or sharp jibe is never far from her lips and she censors herself for no one.

Grace worries about the rest of the team. Mel and Spence don't see it at first but such a toxic relationship can never remain unnoticed. She senses this is not something light - it won't blow over by itself - but it's personal and she shouldn't pry into it.

But when she walks into the department to find Mel in hysterics at Frankie and Spence's tableau of their latest experience with a witness, the fuel of their argument becomes clearer. As Frankie thrusts her hand at Spence and he raises it to his lips in exaggerated propriety, the room is split by a loud bang. All gazes whip round to Boyd: to the folders now scattered at his feet.

The flash of anger – jealousy – is so brief in his eyes that the rest of the team miss it. But Grace is trained to study people – she notices.


	5. AH, YOU KNOW

**#5 AH, YOU KNOW**

'Hi Frankie.'

Grace hovers in the doorway, waiting to be acknowledged. It takes a minute, but eventually Frankie looks up, inviting her in with a warm smile.

'Hi Grace, what can I do for you? If Boyd wants to know about the Preston's DNA…'

'No,' she laughs 'I'm not here pressing for results. He can do his own dirty work. Actually I just wanted to talk to you.' She approaches, pausing by the computer screen so that Frankie is forced to look at her. 'But I did want to talk about Boyd.'

And in that moment the barrier comes down, Grace can see it. Frankie's previously warm and comfortable body language, her inviting expression, immediately replaced by closed and cautious, her arms crossed and her face blank. 'What about him?' She trains her expression on the computer screen, avoiding Grace's knowing look.

'Well by the way you just shut down, I'm pretty sure you already know.'

'Humour me.' Her eyes remain on the screen, but they are too blank to be actually seeing it.

'What happened between you and Boyd?'

She looks up with a flash of shock in her eyes which quickly dissolves to anger. 'I can't believe he talked to you about it; he won't even talk to me and I'm the one he kissed.'

'The one he what? When? Where?'

Frankie's face flushes pink at the surprised tone of Grace's voice, and she turns away from Grace's wide eyes as she replies. 'In the lab – in here – a few weeks ago; we were arguing about something – I don't even remember what – and he kissed me, just to get the last word.'

'A few weeks ago? You haven't been upset with each other that long…'

The pink deepens to scarlet but she finally meets Grace's gaze as she continues in a slow, heavy voice. 'No, we've just been weird since I kissed him.'

'Frankie!'

'I know, I know it was stupid; once is a mistake, and twice is stupidity. But it doesn't matter anymore; we know how each other feel now, so no more excuses for misunderstandings.'

Though she feels this is far from the case, Grace is prevented from saying so by a swish of doors and rapid footsteps.

"Frankie, I think…"

Angry at Boyd for interrupting, Grace turns to glare at him in unison with Frankie, who is just angry to see him.

"WHAT?"


	6. BETWEEN DREAM AND REALITY

**#6 the space between dream and reality**

Boyd dreams of a world without crime.

A world where people survive in relative harmony: without selfishness or desperation. Where people can share peacefully: without inflicting themselves on everyone else. It's not that he's a hippy, he's just jaded – he needs that dream world to escape from the horrors of the world he lives in.

He dreams of a world where he's not a policeman.

Where he's a bus driver, or a librarian, anything where he isn't faced everyday with the ugliest side of humanity; where he can pretend that it doesn't exist - the pain or the hate – and peace of mind is his.

And he dreams of a world where he's not Frankie's boss.

Where they met in a bar, he bought her a drink, and they started something easy, something _pure_: without the poison of inter-office politics to interfere. Where he can kiss her again and again and there's no need to worry about complications or consequences.

But there _is_ crime in the world, and it _is_ his job to face it everyday - he couldn't live if he didn't do his bit to try and change the world. If he'd met Frankie in a bar he would never have bought her a drink, because his attraction to her is deeper than that - he loves her for passion and humour.

And the fact that he has given this so much thought, means there's already complications and consequences.


	7. SUPERSTAR

**#7 Superstar**

'All I'm saying is, it might not be that simple an explanation.'

'And all I'm saying, Boyd, is that it is.'

'Why?'

'Why not? There were no signs of a struggle, and not enough water splashed over the sides for the TV to have fallen further than a few inches. He just did something incredibly stupid, and he paid for it.'

'But that's my problem. He wasn't stupid.'

'He was in a boyband.'

'Could you be stereotyping him anymore, Frankie? Yes he was in a boy band. He also had a first from a highly reputable university'

'In MUSIC; that does not a genius make.'

'_Frankie! _I never had you pegged as such a snob.'

'I'm not a snob, Boyd, I just think you are crediting him with a lot more intelligence than he deserves. He kept a television on a - frankly unsteady - stool beside his bath. He wasn't Nobel prize winning material.'

'But he would have needed good grades to get on the course in the first place – He must have had at least enough common sense to know not to put the television that close. And you're forgetting that everyone we spoke too: friends, family, colleagues, they all said they couldn't believe he'd do something so…'

'Stupid?'

'Stupid. And he was a political activist as well. He used his status…'

'…As an overpaid, under-talented teen idol?'

'…as a CELEBRITY to draw attention to the suffering of farmers post foot and mouth.'

'He was a poor farmer's son come good. Do the words 'PR stunt' mean anything to you? He could just have easily been a figurehead, puppeted by his dad who had the brains.'

'Yes he could, but surely it's something to consider okay?'

'Not really. So since when did you become such a big fan of boybands anyway?'

'I'm not…Frankie, this isn't about who he was…'

'…I know…'

'It's about what he may have been.'

'And that is…?'

'Murdered.'

'This is like banging my head against a brick wall.'

'Why are you so against the idea of this being murder?'

'Because that's my job: to establish the facts based on the evidence. You're just plucking at straws because…'

'So you think I'm being biased: don't you think you're being more than a little prejudiced yourself?'

'Maybe I am, but with good reason.'

'There's never a good reason for being narrow-minded Frankie.'

'No you're right, I'm sorry.'

'No, you're not.'

'What?'

'You're not sorry!'

'Okay, so I'm not because I think I'm right. But let's just pretend shall we? For the sake of my sanity; I don't think I can handle anymore of this conversation.'

'Frankie, are you undermining me?'

'WHAT?'

'I'm your direct superior and if you're undermining my authority…'

'…undermining your what? God, Boyd!'

'…then that's a problem.'

'Are you calling me unprofessional? Because if you are, then _that_ is a problem'

'Oh…for…God's, we need to sort this out!'

'Sort what out…how?'

'I'm sorry if I've offended you.'

'Excuse me? Have I fallen into some parallel universe where you actually admit when you're wrong?'

'Oh, so funny. Now it's your turn.'

'My turn to what? Apologise for following the evidence, which, incidentally, iswhat I'm paid for?'

'That's not…Frankie that isn't what I was apologising for…'

'Then what…? Oh right.'

'So…?'

'You think I should apologise for _that_? You kissed me first Boyd, remember?'

'That was a mistake.'

'Understatement.'

'Will you please take this seriously? We can't carry on the way we have been, it's beginning to affect our work!'

'So you want me to make an apology I don't really feel, just so _you_ can move past this? Then fine; I am sorry Boyd for ever even looking at you in…'

'Okay that's enough. Just…let's just get back to this corpse in the bath tub.'

'What we're sorted now?'

'Yes, yes whatever. I think we should just leave it.'

'So we agree this was an accidental death?'

'FRANKIE!'


	8. OUR WORLD

**#8 Our world**

Eventually they sorted it out.

It should have been fireworks and storms; fights and arguments drawn out over days. Personal grievances they couldn't really overcome, until it all melted; something gave and they fell together like pieces in a jigsaw.

But it wasn't. It was a begrudging truce followed by pretending it never happened, shamed into silence.

She's disappointed, though she tries to ignore it. She expected passion and fire, didn't just expect it - she wanted it. She wanted the chances it afforded, wanted to explore the doors it opened. And she can't stand the thought this is all she gets.

He arrives late one Tuesday night, a bottle of wine in his hand and regret in his eyes, and she can't turn him away. He knows it; she knows it, and their dance of avoidance on the doorstep is nothing more than perfunctory.

"Boyd, I…"

She's not sure what she's going to say, or even what she can say. She takes the bottle from him and leaves him by the door, heading for the kitchen as she fights to find some part of her brain that can process the sight of Boyd at her door.

She comes back to find him perched on the edge couch, and she bites back a comment on his inability to relax anywhere but his office. She doesn't know this for sure - she's never SEEN him comfortable anywhere else, but she's never seen him at home - and with their boundaries breached like this, it's too personal.

He waits and watches as she places the glasses on the table and - sitting on the armchair opposite him - pulls the wine towards her. "Here, let…" He begins, reaching to take the bottle but the cork is popped before he finishes his sentence. She fills the glasses almost to overflowing, and quickly gulps one, two mouthfuls down and studies him over the rim. He raises his glass but doesn't drink, keeps his eyes fixed ahead, and bounces his foot against the floor.

"That's rude." She says without really thinking, and he throws her a confused look. "That." She gestures to his leg which he immediately stills. "It's a sign of discomfort in your surroundings."

He looks mildly amused. "Where did you learn that?"

"It's simple body language, everyone knows it."

He smirks disbelievingly and raises an eyebrow so she concedes. "Okay, I read it an old Cosmopolitan magazine in a Doctors' waiting room once."

His leg begins bouncing again.

"Frankie …"

She stares at his leg; watching the curve of his knee as it rises and falls, ignoring his eyes burning her skin. He doesn't speak either, and her name hangs in the silence as a question neither wants to answer. They sit for minutes in this mute tableau and in the quiet her temper flares: at his weakness for coming and their shared weakness for not talking.

"Can you go please?" Her voice is stung with anger and she finally meets his eyes. Hurt flickers across his face for a moment but he rises to his feet without voicing it.

His immediate submission only fans her annoyance. "Is that it? You come to my house, uninvited, for the first time since we've known each other. You bring wine and stand on my doorstep looking sheepish and nervous. All that and you're going to just leave, after half a glass of Merlot and some stupid small talk about body language?"

"I don't want to upset you."

"So why did you do it?"

"I came here because I thought we needed to talk."

"That's not what I meant. You know that's not what I meant." Her voice is so quiet it's almost a whisper and she looks at him under lowered lashes, vulnerability painted across her face. He reaches an arm out to soothe her and speaks in a voice that is equally subdued "I…don't know. I just thought…well I didn't think. God, I'm too old for this…"

And in a split second her vulnerability dissolves and she controls herself, straightening up to meet his gaze. "Yeah you're right. We're acting like kids, and I hate it. I hate you for making me act this way and I hate myself for doing it. And it stops now Boyd. Right here, right now. This isn't us; this isn't the way we are. Our world is at work, you don't belong here, and I'm not playing by your rules anymore. I can't."

He hesitates, and she can see a thought teetering on his lips, but confusion dances in his eyes and he says nothing. He just nods and brushes his lips across her cheek, heads for the door and out, without even stopping to put his coat on.

He thinks he hears her call his name before the front door closes, a scream, a sob, a curse.

He doesn't turn back.


	9. DASH

**#9 Dash**

"And then he said…oh, hi Frankie."

Mel pulls away from her close conversation with Spence and flashes a warm smile at the latecomer. Spence turns too, though his grin is fondly mocking as he speaks.

"You look nice tonight."

She flushes, but doesn't pass comment on this backhanded compliment. A finger taps her shoulder and she spins round to find Grace who is also smiling. She returns this smile, thinly but as warm as she can muster, trying not to check the immediate vicinity for Boyd's presence. "Bathroom" Grace supplies, adding with a hint of amusement "Spence is right you know."

She hadn't known that a slick of lip gloss and a clean shirt made such a difference to her appearance, but she doesn't get a chance to mention it because he appears; though he doesn't see her as he heads straight for the bar. He orders a scotch before turning to the group and finally noticing her. He blinks – once, twice - and greets her simply. "Frankie."

"Boyd." She leans in quickly and her lips are a warm whisper against his cheek. "Happy Birthday."

"I…Thank you." He swallows whatever he was about to say and Frankie thinks maybe she can escape the night alive. "Can I get you a drink?"

She casts a glance at Mel's pint, Grace's gin and tonic. "A glass of Shiraz please.'

They spend the night dancing around each other.

She repays Boyd's drink twice over - once for politeness and another for his birthday - and they share idle discussion of old cases with Grace, Mel or Spence but never alone. The drinks are ready as water, and soon the whole group is balancing on the knife edge of drunkenness.

What remains of her sobriety tells her to leave; they've moved to a table now and they're all in for the long haul. She sits between Mel and Grace on a cushioned bench, while the men sit opposite and do the bar runs. Mel keeps prodding her and Spence gently nudging her foot under the table, and she can't understand why. Maybe they're confusing her for each other.

Boyd heads to the bar just as Grace reappears from the bathroom, and instead of returning to the bench Grace steals his stool. For some reason this makes Mel giggle, and Frankie feels like she's missing out on some big joke.

It takes two trips for Boyd to retrieve all the drinks, and only when he stops the second time does he notice his missing seat. He drops onto the bench beside her without comment, and the brush of his side against hers makes her flinch.

But he doesn't notice, just snakes a drink across the table towards her. Realising she is playing with fire she tries to sip it slowly, yet somehow this glass lasts half as long as the last and she feels her equilibrium slipping.

Grace is watching them both, she can feel it. She grabs Boyd's arm and pulls him close to whisper into his ear about their voyeur. He doesn't look at Grace before whispering back, his voice a nonsensical rush of heat against her ear. She can't bring herself to pull away from their new closeness, and savours the warm press of his thigh against hers beneath the table.

She lost track of time a while ago, failed to notice the pub slowly filling up. But now it's reached almost full capacity and the air buzzes with body heat and the hazy smell of smoke and sweat. Absently she watches as Boyd reaches to his neck, subconsciously loosening another button of his shirt.

He turns towards her, catches her staring. She feels a blush warming her already hot skin, and he smirks at her, reaching out his hand to rub against hers. Something about this movement upsets her - his arrogant nonchalance or the gesture's deliberate intimacy – and fuelled by the alcohol in her bloodstream anger swells inside her. The events of the last few weeks - his stupid arrogance, his inability to talk to her - all crawl under her skin, needling and irritating. She wants to be anywhere but sat next to him with their bodies pressing together; him thinking they're just fine; assuming he can act like that.

She's up out of her seat without really being aware of her actions. Slinging her coat across her shoulders she makes hurried goodbyes to the others without even giving Boyd another look and dashes for the door, the safety of escape.

The cold night air slaps her as she emerges, stinging her cheeks and bringing tears to her eyes. She spots the comforting yellow glow of a taxi light approaching, and waves desperately to hail it.

A heavy hand appears on her shoulder and she considers ignoring him, but the taxi is too far away to offer a quick exit. She keeps her voice indifferent and keeps waving to the taxi as she asks him. "What?"

"What's wrong?" The confusion in his voice drags her attention to him, and she spins round, for a minute forgetting exactly what was wrong. The cold air is sobering and dampens her anger; she realises the stupidity of her dramatic exit. But despite her embarrassment nothing will get her back in that pub – the hot sticky air, sweet with alcohol, would push her over the edge again eventually.

"I just remembered something I have to do." Weariness seeps through her bones, and she doesn't have the energy to think of a proper lie. His eyes tell her he doesn't believe her but he loosens his grip a little anyway.

"Really? Well that's a shame…I was almost enjoying myself."

She knows it's his birthday and a hint of guilt mingles with her despondent resignation, but she refuses to buckle. "Boyd I'm sorry, I just really need to get home. I'll see you tomorrow yeah?" Quickly she brushes her lips against his cheek, "Happy birthday."

And as the cab pulls up before her, she wriggles from his grasp and climbs in.


	10. TEN

#10 Ten

Each bullet lay on the desk, neatly in rows, labelled one to ten. Even as they stared her in the face she could scarcely believe it. How could you hate someone enough to fill them with not one, not two, not even five but TEN bullets? From a handgun! The intensity of antipathy that took was beyond her comprehension. When was one violent kiss of death - a bullet to the head - not enough? Was it a point being made to the world or was it a viscous outpouring of pent up aggression?

The swish of the lab doors opening cut through her thoughts, a heavy hand slammed on the desk and one by one the bullets rattled their way off the table. With fire in her eyes she looked up at Boyd, and thought maybe she understood how the feeling started.


End file.
